It’s a simple question. Three seconds is all it would take to say it. But the moment I imagine the words leaving my mouth, I know exactly how that would sound. Needy. Pathetic. Like I’m just some guy sitting around waiting for a girl to show up.
And fuck that is not me.
I take another sip of coffee instead and remain silent.
I move away from the counter and sit at the table. The chair scrapes against the floor as I lean back and stretch my legs out in front of me, coffee mug resting between my hands.
Lola stays at the counter, moving through the kitchen with her usual restless morning energy. She opens cupboards, then closes them again. Her fingers drum lightly on the countertop for half a second before she reaches for the bread bag. She pulls out two slices and puts them in the toaster.
“You’re quiet,” she says.
“Just tired,” I say. It is the easiest answer. Also, the safest.
She hums softly. Her fingers tap against the counter as she waits, that same restless energy pulsing through her.
The toaster pops a minute later, and the smell of burning bread immediately fills the kitchen.
“Shit,” she mutters.
Thin grey smoke curls out of the toaster in slow spirals, drifting toward the ceiling as if announcing its death to the world. Then the smoke alarm goes off. A sharp, violent screech tears through the kitchen.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Lola says, yanking the toast out and waving the blackened slices uselessly in the air as the alarm keeps blaring above us.
The burnt bread is so black it could be charcoal, crumbling at the edges.
“Fantastic,” she mutters.
The alarm keeps blaring with that same high-pitched shriek that makes my teeth ache.
Lola spins around, glancing up at the ceiling with clear irritation on her face. Her eyes narrow behind her glasses.
“Hold on,” she says, rushing to the hallway closet and yanking open the door.
A second later, she returns with a broom in one hand. She drags a stool under the alarm, its legs scraping against the floor, and climbs onto it without any concern for her balance or safety.
The stool wobbles slightly beneath her weight. She rises on her toes and jabs the broom handle upward toward the ceiling.
The alarm keeps screaming.
“Stop,” she mutters, jabbing the broom harder at the plastic casing. “Stop screaming. Nobody died. It’s just fucking toast.”
Another jab. This time, it’s more intense. The alarm finally stops mid-scream. Silence falls back into the kitchen so suddenly it feels heavy.
Lola freezes for a second, broom still raised above her head before she lowers it and lets out a long breath.
“Honestly,” she mutters, climbing back down off the stool. “Smoke alarms are the most dramatic things in this house.”
I sit watching her, taking in how her hair falls loose from the ponytail, strands hanging around her beautiful face. I observeher shove the broom back toward the closet without bothering to put it away properly, just leaning it against the wall. This is just another normal morning for her.
She is chaos. Complete fucking chaos.
Burnt toast, smoke alarms blaring and she’s running around the kitchen with a broom and murder in her eyes. And somehow, I fucking love it.
I take another sip of coffee as she walks over to the window and pushes it open. Cold air rushes in, carrying the smoke out in thin wisps.
She returns to the counter and looks at the black toast still sitting on the plate.
“Breakfast is ruined,” she says flatly.
